Ms. Longshot. Sylvie Kurtz

at the ugly workout leg leaning against the wall next to my bed at my Darien estate and groaned. Suck it up, Alexa. There was no use complaining. The workout leg was the best tool for the job I had to do.

      An hour after getting up, I used my Ally Cross frequent-buyer card at a Starbucks before getting onto I-95, treating myself to a grande Americano and choking down an energy bar to keep my promise to Jimmy. In Norwalk, Connecticut, I switched over to the Merritt Parkway because the ride was prettier. My grip on the steering wheel tightened and I belted out a tune at the top of my lungs along with Gwen Stefani on the radio to keep my thoughts from filling my mind with doubts.

      In Hartford, I merged onto I-84 and dismissed my building jitters by concentrating on finding the Ashcroft signs. Make that singular. The town was farther and tinier than I’d expected, and the clock on the dashboard was inching closer to seven much too quickly. Showing up late on my first day wasn’t the best way to start.

      Once I found Ashcroft, I followed the stone wall surrounding the farm for a mile before I turned into the red-bricked pillared entrance to the equestrian center.

      To say the place was grand would be an understatement. The state-of-the-art equestrian facility was located on fifty-five rolling acres of woodlands, hills and pastures. Miles of fence made from the white PVC that imitated wood planks and would last forever without needing fresh paint lined the roadway. Definitely not cheap.

      The stable was as impressive as the château-inspired mansion where Patrick Dunhill lived. Brick-red paint and white accents kept the color scheme of the main house going. The cupola in the center of the roof matched the mansion’s turret. And the covered entry was a nice touch. I left the Focus in the parking lot and, with a bit of trepidation swimming around my stomach—which I blamed on the large cup of coffee rather than nerves—I headed for the barn office.

      I could do this. I could.

      Bart Hind, the manager, sat behind a black metal desk, barking into the phone to what, I gathered, was the feed supplier. His skin looked slept in, the folds and wrinkles ironed in as if he’d stayed too long in one spot. His hair had once been brown, but now was so shot with white that it looked dusty. He wore navy work pants and a plaid work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

      “Who are you?” he growled as he slammed down the phone.

      “Ally Cross. You were expecting me this morning.”

      He glanced at the large clock on the wall and grunted. I’d thankfully found the place and squeaked in a few minutes early. He sidestepped from behind the desk. With a hand gesture, he told me to follow him. His work boots thunked on the concrete floor as he made his way into the barn.

      I’d always loved the smell of stables—hay, sweet feed and leather. But there was no time to admire the bouquet. I had to pay attention to Hind’s rapid-fire instructions.

      “You’ll have six horses.” He chewed every word as if it were the toughest cut of meat, then spit it out like gristle. “You’re expected to muck out their stalls, feed, groom, rotate them into paddocks and get them ready for their owners according to schedule. You work five till whenever the job’s done. Horses don’t care about a clock. Mondays are off.”

      “Where will I find this schedule?” I asked, head spinning just a little bit.

      “In the tack room and feed room.”

      He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. A head popped up from a stall up the aisle and he gestured the woman over. “This is the new girl. Show her around. She’s got the Siegel and all five Hardel horses.”

      The girl’s gray eyes widened behind her water-spotted glasses. “Sure. No problem.”

      And just like that Bart Hind was gone, leaving me standing there as if I were a cartoon character suspended above a canyon with nowhere to go but down.

      “I’m Dawn Waller,” the girl said, offering her hand. Her head full of droopy caramel curls bounced with each of her steps. Kristi had hit the wardrobe right on the nose, judging by Dawn’s outfit—jeans, boots, faded navy T-shirt.

      “Ally Cross.” The calluses at the base of each of Dawn’s fingers scratched at my too-soft palm. I let go of her hand as politely as I could.

      “Don’t take it personally,” Dawn said, leading me down the wide roughened-concrete center aisle. “Bart’s a regular jackass. But he’s not here for his personality. Mr. Dunhill cares about the horses. Period. He couldn’t care less about the people. Unless they’re helping pay the bills, of course.”

      She waved her arm at the stalls, whose varnished pine gleamed gold under the daylight overheads running the length of the barn. “We have thirty-six stalls. Two are empty at the moment. But they won’t stay that way for long. Mr. Dunhill has a waiting list a mile long. Other than Hind, there are six grooms—well, six now that you’re here—a maintenance assistant and two trainers. You’ll meet them later.”

      Dawn introduced me to a couple of grooms, then moved on to the tack room. The pine-sided room had a utility counter and sink. A large white board listed each horse down the left-hand side and the horse’s training and turnout schedule on the right. A multipronged hook hung from the ceiling to clean bridles. Each station had a saddle rack, saddle pad rack and a bridle rack and a built-in tack trunk. Separating each station was a locker with each owner’s name printed by a label maker. I’d have to find time to inspect their contents and see if they turned up anything related to the Horse Ripper.

      Dawn showed me a similar white board in the feed room delineating each horse’s rations. She pointed out the two wash stalls with hot water and heat lamps and the six grooming cross-tie areas with nonskid pads.

      “These horses are quite pampered,” I said.

      “You ain’t seen nothing yet! Some owners bring in an equine psychologist and a massage therapist. There’s even one who calls in a certified hypnotist to make sure her darling’s happy. Can you believe it?”

      Well, yeah, I could. I got massage therapy for my horse Persephone every week now that she was growing old. “Amazing.”

      “Some people definitely have too much money to burn.” As we reached another section of stalls, Dawn cupped a hand over her mouth and whispered, “Watch out for Erin.”

      “Why?”

      “The bitch is a professional suck-up. She thinks ratting on us is part of her job.”

      Dawn gave the stall wall a quick jab. Erin popped up.

      “Erin Mays,” Dawn said. “Meet the new girl. Ally Cross.”

      Erin’s wide-set green eyes squinted at me through the open stall door with the feral intensity of a killer iguana. Her brown French braid started right at her forehead, giving it the look of a ruff on top of her head. I almost expected it to pop up and spread like it did on nature shows.

      “Nice to meet you,” I said and smiled as cheerfully as I could.

      “Same here,” she said with all the warmth of wet wood.

      As we moved on, I couldn’t help rolling my shoulders to dislodge the spear of ill will shot in my direction.

      Dawn was back to her conspiratorial voice. “Katelyn Tierney’s voice is all honey, but don’t let that fool you. She’s not going to be happy to see you.”

      “Why not?”

      “She’s been maneuvering to get herself assigned to Ross Hardel’s horses, and here you are a newbie taking over her coveted spot. They’re hers this morning, and she’s not going to give them up without a fight.” Dawn smirked. “She has a crush on him.”

      “Who? Ross Hardel?”

      Dawn nodded. “She’s sadly mistaken if she thinks a romp between the sheets is going to get her a ring on the finger.”

      “Great.” Would Katelyn’s infatuation make getting close to Ross difficult? With two